Page 192 of Hide and Keep

He scoffs. “Since when do you care about those?”

“Since you just sat there and made me do all the work,” I snap because bickering is our main form of communication. I’d rather argue with Crue than admit to everything going on inside me right now.

“I was doing what I thought you like.”

I did like it. I really did. It’s just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I lost it. And who knows if I’ll be able to find it again. Maybe last night did more damage than I thought. I don’tknow.

I mumble, “Whatever,” to myself, to Crue, to this whole situation, but Crue only takes it as a challenge.

“Let me try again.”

When he grabs for me, I twist out of his reach.

“I have to get ready for school.”

“I thought you said your professor doesn’t mind you being late.”

That was before I subtly threatened to end her life.

“My father does.”

That gets him to stop. Because it is a job. I am his job. Regardless of what he said last night, I am.

Crue hops up. “You’re right. Can’t rush perfection.”

My bodyguard’s words don’t sound sarcastic in any way, yet there’s a blankness in his expression that keep them from feeling genuine.

“Aesthetic first, pleasure last.”If at all.

“Right,” he agrees with a nod I don’t believe for a second.

“Right,” I echo, eyes narrowed on him. Why is he being so compliant all of a sudden?

“I said that.”

Without another word, I stomp past, knocking my arm into his. Why did I agree to stay the night with him? Technically I didn’t agree, my body did. Annoying. My body is so annoying. First, passing out next to Crue, then, this…malfunction. An actual malfunction, too. The sensor on my door hasn’t malfunctioned once and neither did the lights. I turned them off last night in case Crue did something ridiculous like wait up for me, which he did because he’s an overbearing asshole.

He’s not an overbearing asshole at all. He’s caring, and if I could’ve collapsed in his arms and told him everything, I would’ve.

At his door, I hesitate before turning back around. His hands are on his head again.

“Crue?”

“What?” he barks.

That’s not very caring.

Returning his energy, I sass, “Are you going to walk me to my door or not?”

When he drops his hands, I see the butterfly I drew on his forearm, and a warmth spreads through my chest.

But then he says, “Sure. Just let me grab your collar and leash first,” freezing it all to a solid.

I slam his door in my wake. With a sharp tongue like that, it’s no wonder I didn’t come on it.

The only thing Crue says to me between my bedroom door and the kitchen is a murmured, “Take your breakfast to go,” which I was already planning to do for my own reasons but am now curious about his.

Before I can ask him, we’re already entering the kitchen, my father seated in his usual spot. The sight of him has my feet growing ten times heavier. By now, he’ll know last night didn’t end well and he’ll inevitably blame me.

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